Jekyll's Secret
by Black-Coffee-Two-Sugar-Please
Summary: Sherlock is love and love is sociopath. (Martin aka Sherlock/Molly) [AU Sherlock/Cabin Pressure Crossover in a Jekyll&Hyde style. ]
1. Hyde&Seek

Summary: This is not about the drug or the girl. This is not about how Martin Crieff lost control over his own body, either. This is a story about how he, Sherlock Holmes woke up from darkness. (AU. Sherlock & Cabin Pressure Crossover in a Jekyll-and-Hyde style. Inspired by the tv show _Jekyll_ in which Hyde was created because of love. )

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Sherlock or Cabin Pressure and I don't make a penny out of this.

* * *

Hyde and Seek

Since 6 years old, Martin Crieff dreamed about being a pilot though his initial career plan was to become an aeroplane.

Sherlock Holmes knew he was meant to be a consulting detective for…Well…It's a bit hard to estimate the years since he was sharing the mind and body with a useless man who took 7 attempts to pass the pilot qualification. Seriously, it was just a pilot qualification. How difficult was that?

During daytime (depending on which country's time zone you are looking at) he's the Captain Crieff, and at night (Again, time zone is a tricky thing.), he's the delivery boy. Somehow Martin thought that there was some similarity between him and the batman.

Surprisingly, although Sherlock didn't have the main control over the appearance and the body, his "roommate" had absolutely no idea of his existence. When Martin was "driving", Sherlock could observe from Martin's point of view, hear Martin's every little thought and perceive everything Martin had ever laid fingers on. Sherlock envied Martin for freedom. He could only get his playtime when Martin was extremely exhausted.

This was a simple job for Martin. All he had to do was delivering the big box to Ms Molly Hooper at St. Bart's. He should be able to come back in time for the next flight to Chicago.

Sherlock was actually glad that Martin was a pilot. This provided adventures in different countries and saved him finding the excuses not to call Mycroft. Just because Martin and Mark were related in blood, it doesn't mean that their alternative personalities need to be close, not to mention the fact that Martin didn't even know he had a brother called Mark.

He, Martin Crieff, gingery hair, Captain of MJN, was driving a van to St Bart's to deliver a package while he was humming the old song _Jekyll Jekyll Hyde_. He always found the story a bit absurd. How come a person had distinct personalities and completely different looks? But, man, that was a catchy song.

He, Sherlock Holmes, dark hair, the world's only consulting detective, was sleeping during the journey, and waiting for his moment. When he had the chance, he was going to take some drugs. Research and experiments showed that this could extend his shift a bit longer. He just needed to be patient.

Martin parked the van and went to the reception. The receptionist told him that if he didn't mind, he could carry the heavy box to the morgue since Ms Molly Hooper was currently in the middle of something. It was still early so Martin took the lift and went down.

Sherlock was still sleeping, unconscious and lost in the darkness.

Martin knocked on the door and nobody answered.

"Hello?" Martin opened the door slightly, "I've got your package, Ms Molly Hooper." Curious about the lab, Martin sneaked in.

That is when he saw her through the window.

With a ponytail on one side and pink blouse inside the lab coat, she was concentrating on her work. When she lifted her head, Martin saw her face clearly. She had the cute nose and her lips reminded Martin of cherries.

She was the most adorable girl Martin had ever seen.

His heart skipped a second.

Sherlock suddenly woke up. His version was brighter than usual and he somehow felt warmer. The darkness surrounded him before now began to fade. He could smell the scent of disinfectant fluid.

The girl seemed to notice that someone was staring at her. She stopped working on… _Is that a CORPSE?_ Martin blinked twice. The girl waved at him mouthing "I'm coming." and went to the doors.

_Am I…in love?_

Then Martin blacked out and dropped the box.

Sherlock opened his eyes and picked up the box.

_First time to come out while Martin was still awake. Wired. _

"Sorry for keeping you waiting…" The girl entered the lab, "hmm….Hi."

She gazed at Sherlock for a few seconds, "Sorry I thought I saw someone else."

Sherlock lowered his head and looked at his hands which were bigger than Martin's and the trousers felt a bit shorter. Sherlock chuckled and looked at the girl in the eyes, "Yes, he left. This is your package, I believe."

"Thank you. I'm Molly Hooper and you are?"

"Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Shame

Shame

Sherlock Holmes couldn't sleep.

To be precise, he didn't want to.

Every time he drifted to sleep, he would dream about flying the aeroplane by Martin's side. Martin would whine about ridiculous things like "too mean to the police officer", "Shooting the wall is too dangerous, Sherlock. What if the bullet goes through the wall and harms the old nice lady?" or "Are you gay?"

Sometimes, the passengers sneaked into the cabin as well. John was usually the pussy one who complained that the plane was flying too low which was extremely risky. Sherlock would wave to the stewardess, Molly to make some tea. After Molly bringing the hot beverage, John disappeared. (It was in his dream. There wasn't any logic.) And Martin would take a sip and whisper, "You should be nice to her, Sherlock." while eyeing her secretly. Then, Lestrade would storm in and grumble about the music being too loud, as if he didn't notice how Sherlock was not in the mood for thinking about other people's feelings.

Most of the time, Sherlock ignored them, lowered the plane and turned up_ Danse __Macabre_ in Lestrade's face_. _

Unfortunately, the dreams became nightmares recently. The plane was always crashing down and when he was adjusting the equipment, Martin would jump in his seat and shout "Let me drive! Let me drive!"

The crisis was always solved when the plane was just about to bump into the Big Ben. But Sherlock suspected that one day it would. And he didn't like the idea of that at all.

So, when Sherlock was getting sleepy, he let the violin play its magic.

* * *

The day finally came.

Standing on the roof, Sherlock wanted to laugh. He had imagined how he would quit the stage of history but he never saw this coming.

Suicide? Not because of the boredom but the protection for others?

He could just go down the stairs.

But he couldn't. He couldn't let John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade die. He blamed them for being such irreplaceable parts in his life that he didn't want to go back to life without them. He despised himself for being such a sentimental idiot.

What incapable government Mycroft would lead! What tedious girlfriend John would bring home! Would Lestrade go back to his terrible wife? Would Molly get another psycopath boyfriend? How many more reports would Anderson screw up?

He had to shamefully admit that, like Martin and many other mediocre human beings, he cared.

Maybe he was in fact capable of loving.

It was really ironic that when he realized this, he was about to die.

He left one note inside his pocket and took the leap.

* * *

"I don't think autopsy is necessary. He's literally open." Molly pointed at Sherlock's cracked brain.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock with an expression which was hard to read. It was full of grief, fury, guilt, doubt and other complicated things. Molly couldn't find a single word to summarize.

"When I checked his pocket, I found this." Molly handed a note to Lestrade, "It made no sense at all."

Lestrade looked down at the note for a minute and said the only sentence after he entered the morgue. "Thank you, Dr Hooper." He put the note beside Sherlock and left.

It was only Molly and Sherlock in the morgue.

As Sherlock had instructed, Molly left a fake passport, a mobile, a suit, some painkillers, and a captain hat on the operating area. With one last look at Sherlock, she turned off the light and walked out.

Molly had absolutely no idea how Sherlock could cheat Death.

But she believed in him.

* * *

Martin woke up. He felt cold and strange. As he turned his head, he saw Sherlock's note:

Welcome back, Captain Crieff.


	3. Mycroft

Mycroft

_Got a secret  
Can you keep it?  
Swear this one you'll save  
Better lock it, in your pocket  
Taking this one to the grave_

* * *

Like many other usual college students, Mark was pissed in a club. Steve was nowhere to be found. Mark guessed Steve was banging that new chick, Susan.

Always hoes before bros.

Bastard.

Mark swore that woman was definitely not that simple. If life had taught him something, then that would be _do not trust any animal that bleeds every month but is still kicking_.

He had to repeat.

_Do not trust any animal that bleeds every FUKING month but is still FUCKING kicking. _

As he walked out of the club, he nearly crashed into a person passing by.

"Hey! Watch out!" The other person shouted.

"As if I gave a damn about it." He snorted.

Mark walked down the street. It was quiet. The wind was blowing and he became a bit sober. When he turned the corner, he heard someone whistling.

"Piss off!" All he wanted to do now was going home, sleep for 6 hours before doing Literature project. The deadline was approaching and he honestly wrote nothing yet.

As he walked into the alley, he realized something was not right. 2 men seemed to follow him for awhile.

He hurried up and 2 men began to run.

"Oh crap!" One of the two men suddenly came in front of him, pointing a gun at him. The other man dragged away his bag.

"Give me your wallet!" The man in front of shouted.

"Okay, Okay. Just calm down, dude." Mark's hand went to his pocket slowly.

But a voice whispered in his brain, "Don't.

"Did you say something?" Mark asked the robber.

"I said, give me your wallet!

"They're gonna kill you no matter you give them the wallet or not." The unfamiliar voice whispered in his mind again, "Look at their body behaviour. It's not the first time for them to kill.

Mark thought he drank too much.

"You know I'm real." The whispering in his mind didn't stop. "I can do it. Let me do it."

"Are you fucking deaf?" The robber in front of him became impatient.

Mark's face twisted.

"What the hell?" The robber was shocked at Mark's transformation.

Mycroft looked up and grinned but without the meaning of grinning. "Gentlemen, I believe we might have a bit of trouble."

* * *

After Mark recovered from hangover in the next day, the Literature project he handed was a study on _Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_.

Since that night, Mark realized there's a second person in his body, a stronger and more intelligent one who called himself Mycroft.

They took turns to control. Martin went to lectures in the daytime and Mycroft went on adventures at night. Sometime it was about a case, (Mark still didn't know how Mycroft could convince the police to let him enter the crime scene.) and sometimes it was a conference dealing with international conflicts which he shall not mention.

Mark really felt that Mycroft knew how to live better than him.

He wrote a novel about a spy who was involved in numerous invasions to other countries as his final work to graduate.

On his day of graduation, Mark gave up.

* * *

He took out his golden pocket watch and read the time. Five minutes to go.

A woman in black knocked on the car window and the window came down. "Sir, this is the file you want."

"Thank you, Anthea." He accepted it and nodded.

"Always a pleasure, sir." Anthea gave him a little smile, turned around and disappeared into the dark shadow London had been covered since chilly November.

He sighed. Three minutes to go.

He looked at the file sitting on his laps. While he turned over the page, he couldn't help but drifted away with the memory of how things had got here.

Moriarty sat back and smirked, "Look at you, Mr Holmes. I expected better from you. To be honest, I wasn't sure you would tell me how our darling Sherlock grew up."

He remained silent.

"I will bet my whole collection of Les Nymphéas that Sherlock would never this coming, either."Moriarty crossed his legs.

"What's the code?" His voice was calm and steady, suppressing his urge to punch this intolerable scumbag.

"My measurements." Moriarty said with a wicked grin.

His mind went blank. The next thing he knew was Anthea rushed in and pulled him away from Moriarty.

Mouth covered in blood, Moriarty laughed so hard that his laughter haunted in Mycroft's brain as Mycroft walked down the corridor.

* * *

His thoughts were interrupted when Martin stumbled out, nearly falling off the stairs.

"Captain Crieff!" He waved to Martin, "May I have your attention for a minute?" He opened the door.

Martin looked at him baffled but sat inside anyway.

"I know you might have questions but please, bear with me for a minute and you would understand them all." Mycroft comforted Martin, though he knew judging from Martin's lost-puppy expression, Martin would stay even if he had been a human trafficker.

Moriarty was right about only one thing.

Sherlock and he might have sibling rivalry but he would never betray his own brother.

He sold Moriarty a fake story just like Moriarty made up the code. Then he waited to pick up Martin. As long as the original host didn't die, the alter ego would always have a chance to be born again. No matter his brother was Sherlock or Martin, his loyalty would always lie along with them. Loyalty was one of the few characteristics that his own original personality possessed and when he took over the body, he appreciated it and chose to keep it.

Never underestimate an alter ego.

Especially the one who dominated the original personality.

"It was noted in 1886 when dual personalities first took turns to control the body as you might see in the file…"


	4. First Three Stages of Grief

**Author's note: I don't need a ring and I'm dying for reviews. Show me some love and make me the happiest girl in the world, won't you? xxxx**

* * *

First Three Stages of Grief

Grief occurs at five stages.

Firstly, one might have self-deceiving denial.

"But Sherlock isn't real, is he? Even if he's real, how can he share a body with me? How can he die? " Isolation may inevitably come as well. "What do you mean by 'human evolution'? Is this a bad joke? Just leave me alone."

Mycroft Holmes sighed, "Martin, do you remember the first time you saw the aeroplane? The first time you left home? The moment when your father past away? The titles of Hitchcock films you joked about when no passengers were on board? Sherlock grows on all your sentiments and emotions, shares your happiness and memories, feeds on your…" Mycroft paused for a minute, thinking about what word to use, and added, "…love."

Martin looked away, "So he can just selfishly show up whenever 'his majesty' is pleased?" Here it is the anger.

"Not really." Mycroft answered immediately, "There's a mutation in your genes…" Mycroft adjusted what he said, "…Our genes which could be passed through blood."

"Are you my cousin or something?"

"We shared the same biological mother. There's a chance whether situations like us would happen. Most people in the family don't have this issue. You need the right trigger to fully activate the alter ego. Some people get there by drugs, some by accidents. In your case, it was Molly Hooper."

Martin was silent. He opened his mouth, trying to say something but then chose to shut up.

"Yes?"

"If only I stay away from this Molly Hooper, will he still be able to suppress me?" Martin was rubbing the edge of the captain hat, in the state of insecurity and uncertainty.

The bargain is always the fascinating part of how people would react. "To be honest, I don't know." Mycroft said in a low voice, "Martin, Sherlock is you, after all."

"No, he's not. He's brilliant, workaholic, childish and stinks at human skills. He's married to his work. I have nothing like him." Martin looked genuinely confused.

"Doesn't that just sound like someone you know?" Mycroft chuckled.

"Are you…" Martin's attention was distracted when the car stopped.

"I guess that would be a bed-time story for another day, then?" Mycroft smiled.

Martin opened the door and walked out with the file that Mycroft gave to him in the hands. "Thank you, Mycroft. I know Sherlock probably would disapprove of me saying this. But, Mycroft, thank you for everything. "

Before the car was driving away, Mycroft shouted at Martin who was about to go inside the flat, "Check your doormat. I prepared you a little welcome-home gift."

* * *

As Martin stood in front of his own bed, everything looked so familiar and new. It felt like a long time ago since he was here. His room was simplistic and practical, unlike Sherlock's which has severe fire hazards. Martin kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

He wasn't sure how he felt about Sherlock. An intruder? A replacement? Or who he really was? Martin knew that he had every right to be angry with Sherlock. He just took the body without any sign. When he came to think about it, even if Sherlock had said something like "Hi, I'm your other side and I'm here to ground your soul, borrow your body to run after the most dangerous criminals in London, and jump off a blood roof.", he would still have been uneasy about it. That was not fair. He deserved to live his own life.

However, deep inside, Martin somehow knew that the thing bothered him most was not the fact that Sherlock robbed two years of time off him, but the truth that how awesome those two years were.

Just because Martin hadn't had a say in which direction the body could go, it didn't mean Martin couldn't feel. It was certainly different from being a pilot. How could he forget the moments of adrenalin flooding through his body, the senses of achievements when the cases were solved, and the agitated expectation for the unknown adventures? No, he couldn't.

The thing which really made Martin envy about was that morality and imagination could never limit Sherlock. He could do whatever he likes without giving a care of how others think. Well…Obviously not everybody. Sometimes Dr Waston got irritated. But Martin had to admit, Sherlock did cross lines and deserved to be punched in the face sometime.

And Sherlock's brain worked in an indescribable way. Martin had thought Douglas was brilliant. (No, he refused to tell Douglas about it, not even on bet.) But Sherlock was on a whole new level of magnificence.

Compared to Sherlock, he was nothing.

Martin doubted whether his coming back was a blessing or a curse.

When he thought about how he lost control in the first place, he had this sort of conflicted feelings. He liked Molly. He really did. Initially, he just thought she looked cute. But as Sherlock continued contacts with her, Martin couldn't help but be drawn to her.

She was sweet and bright. No matter how cold the morgue was, as long as she was there, it would always feel like a warm and peaceful place. Death was not a cheering topic but with her, death seemed more natural and clinic, like some path that everybody would all end up at, but she made it more respectable and dignified. Martin always held respect for people who enjoyed their jobs and she was certainly one of them. There was something mysterious about her he wouldn't figure it out. Martin suspected that even Sherlock couldn't find out.

He really wanted to meet her, as himself.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't lose his body again no matter how much he wanted to touch her, smell her, feel her, kiss her, cuddle her watching QI or tuck her in at night.

It was pathetic, Martin understood, to have feelings for someone who didn't even know his existence. It was even more hopeless when he clearly couldn't approach her.

Sherlock Holmes was an addict. He had a history of heroin and morphine.

Martin Crieff was also an addict, and his only drug was Dr Molly Hooper.


	5. So the jouney begins

Many thanks to people who have reviewed, set this as alert or favourite.

Here I present you, the chapter five!

* * *

So the Journey Begins

Martin felt quite unnerved, to be honest.

As he was standing in front of Carolyn's house, he was battling with himself on whether ringing the bell or not, what things should be said, what if Carolyn already found a replacement of Martin, like some guy called "Marvin".

He wished Douglas would be here. Douglas always stepped on Carolyn's nerve much more than he did. Maybe Carolyn would be more pissed about Douglas and forgot the fact that Martin had disappeared for two years.

No, he didn't want Douglas here. Douglas' smug face was the least he needed.

He raised his finger to press the door bell but stopped in the middle of the air. It was a bad idea. It must be. He never had a good idea.

If it wasn't because of Mycroft's stupid gift, a new pilot uniform, he could have just moved on and got a new job, a proper one. Now with that smashing armour, his heart was itchy again for the feeling of flying. Besides, he missed everybody. He really did.

He took a deep breath in and slowly breathed out. Then, he rang the door bell.

The door opened after a few seconds.

Carolyn stood there and looked at Martin mouth-opened.

Martin smiled at her, praying inside that she would not hit him with a pan.

No, Carolyn didn't hit him.

Carolyn slapped him.

"Ouch!" Martin cried out.

Carolyn remained stiff for some time but out of nowhere, she was then crying, actually crying, as if she was the one whom just got slapped.

* * *

A normal life for a normal man would be going to work early, having lunch with friends, going back home to the arms of his beloved wife and children, and occasionally having a picnic at Hyde Park.

That was never John Watson's life and never would be.

He lost count of the bottles of beer a long time ago but he was always sober.

They said that if someone important in your life left, you would have seen the delusion of traces of him or her lingering and that would be perfectly normal.

John didn't see the slightest hallucination at all. John knew that Sherlock Holmes, his friend of all time, the greatest man of twenty-first century, died, in front of his own eyes.

"That's it!" Someone pulled the curtains and the sunlight was dazzlingly bright, "You, young man, are going on a vacation."

John raised his hand, attempting to cover some lights and avoid eye-contact with a furious Mrs Hudson.

* * *

Martin felt quite unnerved, again.

Douglas was staring at him intensely for the whole five minutes, yet nothing came out of his mouth. There was nothing wrong with Douglas if he said anything sarcastic. Something was definitely not right if Douglas's mouth decided to take a sit-back and let the world have the peace.

"News flash: I'm not dead." Martin chuckled awkwardly.

All Douglas did was to narrow his eyes.

"I know you must have a lot questions. But the important thing is…" Martin was interrupted when Douglas suddenly stood up to take off his jacket, put his hat aside, and folded his jacket neatly.

"…I'm back."

Ignoring Martin completely, Douglas began to undo his cuff button.

"What are you doing, Douglas?"

A heavy slap in the face was all he got as a response.

Martin touched his left cheek as he was going to open his mouth, Arthur entered the cabin.

_Finally someone who would be happy to see me!_

Martin thought.

"Morning~~Morning~~Morning~~Morning~~" Arthur was as cheerful as always.

"Douglas." Arthur had a funny facial expression on him, "Why does Martin today look miserable?"

"Because he is." Douglas murmured his first sentence.

"Hey, Arthur." Martin waved to Arthur.

"But mum told me he's imaginary. How could someone imaginary feel pain?" Arthur was still confused.

"No, Arthur. This Martin is real. The one you pictured before was imaginary." Douglas explained as he put the jacket back on.

"Oh, I see." Arthur nodded, "Hi, Martin. Nice to meet you finally! "

"No, Arthur. This Martin, the real one, did fly with us. The one you imagined to fly the plane while whistling and doing ridiculous tap dance doesn't exist."

"What a pity! He was a good lad." Arthur seemed a bit upset, "So this one actually exists, right?"

"Yes, Arthur." Martin nodded.

"Wait! What if you, Douglas, are not real, either?" Arthur raised his head to think.

"Well thought, Arthur." Douglas nodded his head sarcastically.

Martin face palmed.

"Oh, I know! There's only one way to find out."

"What way?" Martin asked.

Immediately, Arthur slapped Martin.

"What is it with you people?" Martin cried out for the pain, "Why it's always the left side? Don't you know it's really hurt to get repeatedly slapped on one side?"

"So you are real, then."

"Yes!"Martin shouted.

"But still, that doesn't mean Douglas is real."

* * *

John helped Molly to lift the hand baggage.

"Thanks a lot, John."

"Don't mention it." John sat down into his seat, "I'm sorry you are dragged into this."

"It's okay. I only hope Mrs Hudson's hips will get better." Molly said while she secured the seat belt, "She really cares about you, you know."

"Yeah." John sighed, "I know I should perk up. It's just…" John looked away, trying not to be vulnerable, "…hard to do it."

Molly looked at him carefully before saying anything, "I'm sure you will get better after this vacation."

She was a bit unsettled about being John's "babysitter", as quoting Mrs Hudson's original words. Mrs Hudson exhorted her again and again not to let John drink, smoke or do anything involving sulking until the end of the world. Although John was suffering, she still couldn't tell John that Sherlock might be alive. She was not even sure herself so it would be better not to give John any false hope. Somehow that makes her feel it was her responsibility to save John some pain.

Currently John was still frustrated. But as long as John didn't have an emotional break-down, Molly would consider that the situation went rather smoothly.

They waited for the plane to take off silently. The passengers around them were really quiet as well.

"Gooooooooooooooood Morning, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome abroad to MJN. This is Captain Crieff speaking. May I just say that the weather is smashingly good today?"

There was a moment when Molly thought that was a certain somebody's voice. But it couldn't be, could it? Surely he should be somewhere in Prague kicking ass and saving the world rather than messing with poor John, shouldn't he?

Molly turned and looked at John.

_Oh, no. _

She knew that look. John had this sort of tell before turning from a friendly Teddy Bear to a violent King Kong. John undid the seat belt and before Molly realized, he rushed to the cabin.

_This is so not going to end well. _


	6. Hi Jack

Chapter Six

Hi Jack

"Ladies and Gentlemen, unfortunately due to the weather, there might be a short delay before we take off…" Douglas's smooth and deep voice was mixed a woman's squeak, "John, stop fighting!" and along with her dear son, Arthur's enthusiastic cheering, "Go, Skip, go!"

_Good. Very Good._

Couldn't they be unsupervised for one minute? Carolyn rubbed her temple.

"Excuse me, Sir. Bags are not allowed to be put on the floor of the hallway." She maintained her professional smile, trying her best to ignore the noises from the cabin.

"…However, while we are waiting, if anybody knows any good joke…"

"You can't fool me, Sherlock!"

"That's my real hair, you mad man!"

"Skip! Skip! Skip! Skip!"

"…Or would like to share a card trick…" Douglas acted as if nothing was going on around him.

"Is there anything wrong?" One of the three passengers raised his head and looked at Caroline in confusion.

"Oh. I'm sure it's nothing." Carolyn emphasized the word "nothing" through her gritted teeth.

She shouldn't put two batches of passengers together in the first place. Look at how chaotic it had been.

"…Or simply want to have some sex..." As classy as always, today was a typical day for Douglas.

"John, he's not Sherlock!"

"I don't know who you are, mate, but you fight like a girl."

"Arthur! That's not helping!"

"…Please make yourself to the cabin crew." Douglas must be really bored and didn't think it was out of control enough.

Carolyn opened the door in fury with a face that could totally scare innocent little children to cry. Everyone froze. A blond man was on top of Martin and still pulled Martin's collar while a woman was trying to separate the two and her own son was holding a camera.

"A joke, a card trick, or sex, Carolyn," Douglas still had Martin's captain hat on him and a hand on the speaker, "which one do you prefer?"

"Children, we have a situation." Carolyn shut the door forcefully.

"You tell me." Martin mocked, looking up from the floor.

"We are about to get hijacked."

The blond man suddenly released Martin who fell onto the floor with a loud "Ouch". "Are you sure?" He stood up, "I'm John Watson, by the way. I was a doctor in the army once."

"I wasn't born yesterday and I know those things in their bags are definitely not fishing tools." Carolyn pointed at Douglas, "Report to the airport, now."

"It's a bit too late, I'm afraid." One of the men who stood behind Carolyn pointed a gun at her. "It's a lovely weather. Why don't we take the old girl for a ride?" He, who seemed to be the leader of the group, shot John.

"FYI, the name is Sebastian Moran."

* * *

Molly rushed to John's side and tried to staunch the flow of the blood while Arthur fainted at the sight of the blood.

"Seriously?" Sebastian Moran rolled his eyes on Arthur.

Martin's face was pale.

Jesus! John was shot! He had absolutely no idea what to do. If Sherlock was here, he would come up with thousands of ways to escape unharmed and would know something was wrong in the first place.

He was not Sherlock! He didn't have the mind or the ability!

Moran sneered, "Relax! I didn't shoot any vital part. Don't want to the doctor to miss the fun part." He walked towards John and grabbed Molly's hair, "Patch him up, won't you, Molly? Jim told me that you have deft hands."

Martin stood up and pushed Moran, "Let her go."

Moran released Molly reluctantly, "Oh! Don't worry, Doppelganger. You will get your turn, soon. After all, we have hours to spare."

Sebastian patted Douglas, "Hey, Captain. Can we fly yet? Is the weather okay now?"

"Golf Tango India, request permission to kill." Sebastian smiled in a creepy way.

Martin couldn't help but shiver at the coldness in Sebastian's twisted voice.

And this was just the beginning.

Martin hated the roaring jet engine for the first time. It was the only thing he could hear. His eyesight was blurred by the sweat dripping from his forehead. One of Moran's henchmen stayed with Douglas in the cabin and the other probably watched over John, Molly, Arthur and Carolyn in the back seats while Moran was carving Martin like a roast chicken. Martin could feel the warm blood running down his thighs where Sebastian Moran had sliced with table-knife. The cuts were not fatal, but so achy that Martin wished that he could just pass out. He shifted a little, wondering whether the two thighs still belonged to him, but his movement was hindered by the two handcuffs which tied both his hands with armrests.

Moran had been off to the cabin to negotiate with the police or the government, whatever. Martin hoped that it was Mycroft at the other end; otherwise, they wouldn't have a chance to survive.

How many hours had it been? Martin wasn't sure. How could they get out? Martin didn't know the answer to that, either. The only thing he knew was that when Moran came back, he was going to torture him further.

He had overheard Moran's yelling during Moran's first interaction with the ground, "Where is the bloody Sherlock Holmes? There's only a death certificate left. Do you think that I'm an idiot?" He was just an entertainment for Moran, for now. If Sherlock didn't show up, they would be killed one by one.

It was highly ironic, Martin reckons, that the person Moran risked looking for was in fact sitting in front of him for the whole time.

Some part of Martin wished that Sherlock never existed. He would have been the captain, Douglas would have stolen successfully tequila from Carolyn and Arthur would still have been a clot, a happy and adorable one.

But other people would've died.

Martin knew how many people lived because of Sherlock even though they had no idea and how many families got closure for their losses. Martin guessed that was why he could never resent Sherlock.

"It's Martin, right?" Martin heard a whisper from his right side. He looked up and his heart skipped a beat like the way it did a long time ago.

"I'm Molly." Of course, he knew who she was.

"When Moran asked me to sew up John, I hid some painkillers." Molly put some pressure on Martin's wound while she kept shooting glances at the cabin door, fearing that Moran might walk in at any moment. "Here they are. They will make you feel better."

Martin nodded and swallowed the tablets.

"What happened to the guy watching you?"

"Asleep. We were given sleeping pills so that that guy could take a nap from time to time behind Moran's back. He didn't even bother to tie us up. I spat the pills when he wasn't looking. John was still too weak to move." Molly rubbed some gel on the cuts. Her hands stopped when she realized how badly Martin had been hurt. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." In some way, it was.

Martin looked right into Molly's eyes, "Hey. We will escape, I promise."

The least he could do was to be brave for Molly.


	7. Sweet Idiot

Jekyll's Secret

Chapter Seven

She shivered when Martin looked at her in the same way as Sherlock did on the night he "died". Molly was drawn by Martin's eyes, the similar green eyes full of determination and sadness as Sherlock's. The man in front of her was not Sherlock, Molly reminded herself, Sherlock was probably somewhere in Italy fighting his battle. They were on their own.

"I won't let him hurt you, Molly." Martin made a promise to her.

He couldn't even protect himself. How could he save her?

Such an idiot.

But a sweet one.

Molly's expression softened. Knowing this man less than a day, yet Molly felt that she could trust him as if they had acquainted for years. Her thoughts were interrupted when the plane started to dip down so Molly rushed back to the back seats and pretended to be asleep.

Moran came out of the cabin with a winning smirk around the corner of his mouth. Molly had no idea where they were but she reckoned that they were at a low altitude judging from the sights outside. Moran opened the emergency exit, looked out and shouted. "Where's he? Where's Sherlock BLOODY Holmes?" The wind blew through the door so strongly that all the people on the plane woke up.

Molly was frozen from head to toes.

Moran knew. How could he possibly know that Sherlock was alive?

Among the noises of the blowing wind, John laughed bitterly, "He's dead! You nuts!"

Moran turned and said, "Oh no, doctor! It was an empty coffin. I dug."

Molly wasn't so sure what the ground said but it must be something really upsetting because Moran immediately drew the pistol and went to grab her savagely. She tried to resist him but he was too strong. "How about I shooting Sherlock's little girlfriend first?" Moran dragged her to the opening with a gun pointed at her head.

Now she could see Lestrade and some police cars underneath. The plane was spiraling above a lake.

"How about I count to three?" Moran fired off as string of abuse.

"One." Molly struggled desperately but she couldn't get out of Moran's arm.

"Two." She stepped on Moran's left foot but he held her still.

"Three." She closed her eyes.

"Wait!" Martin's voice came from behind, "You want Sherlock Holmes? Alright. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

Molly opened her eyes shockingly. Moran watched Martin in such disbelief that he let Molly go unconsciously. John looked at Martin with mouth agape.

"Shoot me if you want." Martin attempted to keep his voice steady, "Don't hurt the others."

"So you are saying you are Sherlock Holmes?" Moran laughed. "You gotta be kidding me. You look like Sherlock Homes, I will give you that, but you are no Sherlock Holmes."

"It was all an act." Martin argued.

No, it wasn't. Molly knew it. Martin was definitely not Sherlock. She could feel it by heart. Sherlock was vodka and Martin was champagne. He was just saying that so she wouldn't be killed while exposing himself under threats.

No one had done that for her before.

Had she mentioned that Martin was a sweet idiot?

"Awww...That's heart-warming…pretending to be Sherlock Holmes to save the girl." Moran mocked, "Since you want to die for her so much, I might just make your wish come true." Moran aimed the gun at Martin.

Molly looked around. If Moran was taken out, the rest might have a chance of survival. She was touched by Martin's gesture. It was brave that he wanted to sacrifice for her. If they had met under different circumstances, she might have asked Martin out and they would have made a cute couple.

But life wasn't a fairy tale. She took a deep breath and just when Moran was about to pull the trigger, Molly seized Moran from behind and jumped out of the plane.

Moran cursed loudly.

As Molly was falling, she smiled at the thought that someone was once willing to die for her.

* * *

"No!" John shouted.

A dark figure followed Molly and jumped immediately.

John knocked off the man beside him. He looked back to where Martin was seating. Only two pairs of handcuffs left hanging openly on Martin's seat.

* * *

She couldn't breathe. Her head felt heavy and she kept falling under the water no matter how hard she struggled to move her limbs around. Some air bubbles went up through her hair and fingers. She was like the little mermaid but minus the ability to swim. It was dark and chilly. She didn't know where Moran was but she hoped her sacrifice was worth something.

It was said that when people were dying, their life would run through their brains like horse race lamp.

For her, she saw Sherlock. Sherlock was swimming to her, but she couldn't see his face clearly. He shook her but she was too weak to respond. He held her in his arms, opened his mouth and pressed his lips against hers to pass air to her. Her mouth was closed at first but then gradually she respired and blew air into his mouth, too.

She closed her eyes. She must be hallucinating due to the lack of oxygen. Sherlock was not her knight in shining armor to rescue her, let alone kissing her. But this illusion was nice. If she was dying, drowning in the arms and on the lips of her love was romantic, even if it only existed in her imagination.

Too bad that she never told that insufferable prick that she loved him, or slapped him.

Then everything went black.

* * *

"Care to explain what's going on, Sherlock?" About half an hour later, John watched Sherlock held Molly up from the water and the EMTs lifted soaking-wet and unconscious Molly to the ambulance.

"I don't have time." Sherlock covered his bleeding wounds, "Do you trust me, John?"

"I can't believe you even ask me that question." John was angry.

"Promise me." Was Sherlock actually begging? John wasn't sure what to say to those eyes of Sherlock Holmes. "Protect her."

John was silent. He carefully looked at Sherlock up and down.

"Please."

"You know I will." John couldn't understand what really happened but he would anyway because Molly was his friend.

Sherlock had died in front of his very own eyes and now he was back. Sherlock cared about Molly but he made John swear to take care of her. There were too many mysteries around Sherlock. John trusted Sherlock to tell him one day.

John stayed to give statement to the police and Sherlock got on the same ambulance with Molly. Before the EMTs closed the door, John noticed that Sherlock was holding Molly's hand.

* * *

"Hello?" Molly was in a field with nobody around but the green grass.

"I won't let him hurt you, Molly." She heard someone speaking. She turned around but found no one.

"Anybody there?"

Then out of nowhere the clouds formed Sherlock's face.

"I won't let him hurt you, Molly." He said.

Dispersed by the breeze, the clouds moved and showed Martin's face.

"I promise." Martin gave her a comforting smile.

Molly suddenly woke up. Martin was asleep near her bed with stiches on his head. She could hear the stable sound of the machine and smell the flowers on the table. Martin purred a little when Molly fiddled his hair.

Martin was a bit like her cat, Toby, and Molly grinned at her own joke.


	8. Live in the Moment

Chapter 8 Live in the Moment

They started dating a week later.

If Molly had to say what she had learnt from her near-death experience, then that would be to grab the chance of being happy whenever she could. _To live in the moment_, as someone old and wise might say. Martin was cute and trustworthy. Lucky (or maybe not?) for her, Martin was just as socially-awkward as her.

As a repayment for their first date in the royal air force museum, she invited him to her workplace.

Yes. That was correct.

The morgue.

In contrary to how her most dates turned out, Martin showed up on time with a rose rather than cancelled the dates like they all did with polite rejections.

"So you just turn up at a morgue. What if I'm a psychopath, who lures men to unfrequented places, kills them and eats their genitals?" She opened the door akimbo.

Martin tilted his head and thought about how to reply for a few seconds. "…I'm sorry that I like you?"

Molly was a bit surprised by Martin's honesty.

Immediately realized what he had just said, Martin blushed and added, "I mean, I don't think a pretty girl with a fluffy jumper can be a maniac."

Now it was Molly's turn to blush. All she did was just standing there. Suddenly she became particularly self-aware of her hands which were previously on her waists. Where should hands go when being complimented? If she put her hands aside, she looked a bit stiff and untouched, and if she put her hands across her chest, her gesture suggested that she was pissed off.

"Sorry. I don't mean to embarrass you…" Martin misunderstood Molly's silence as being offended and blurted, "Of course, you can be a maniac, if you want to. I'm not saying you are not capable of murdering. Women are in fact better criminals than men…"

"So you like me?" Molly took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. "And you think I'm a 'pretty girl with a fluffy jumper' and capable of murdering?"

Martin at first nodded and then quickly shook his head, "There's nothing wrong with a fluffy jumper, of course. Jumpers are cool, especially the fluffy ones…" His face was getting redder and redder.

Finally, Molly decided to show some mercy and save Martin from drifting away into the awkward conversation by saying the three magic words,

"Come on in."

As she turned around and closed the door, there was a big smile on her face that Martin didn't catch.

Oh, she was definitely going to keep this one.

* * *

"Click, click, click…"

The street was quiet and beautiful. Only her high heels made a sound when touched the ground. Yellow lights shone through the top windows of the buildings and white streetlights barely illuminated the road beyond.

Martin whispered his funny comments about the waiter who served the fancy meal they just had while they were walking down the street hand in hand. Molly giggled more than intended realizing that she might have drank a bit too much wine.

Everything was great. They had great time together. Martin was sweet, really adorable and considerate. He was willing to listen to her story, even the secret nick names she gave to her "patients". He didn't think her as creepy or geeky. He made her feel better about herself. She felt relaxed, confident and free around him.

He made her feel like a woman.

Unlike a certain asshole who made her a bigger fool than she already was.

No. She had prohibited herself comparing Martin with Sherlock. Only Martin.

"Molly?" Martin asked her softly, "Are you alright? You are staring at me, again."

Molly grinned, "Sorry."

Martin sighed, "Maybe I can carry you?"

"No, Martin. I've told you a thousand times. I'm nooooooot drunk."

"Really?"

"Yep!"

"You were mumbling to a streetlamp for five minutes." Martin patted on Molly's head, "I'm here, by the way."

Molly tiptoed and stole Martin's captain hat.

"Huzzah. Captain Martin Crieff, at your service." She bowed and the hat which was obviously too big for her fell off.

Martin bent down to pick up while he was laughing. "I talk nothing like that."

When Martin straightened up, a man pointed a gun at them.

"Give me your money!"

"Aww…" Molly was clearly not at the best state to make decision, "What is it with men and gun? Mugging with a gun is so cliché. Have you ever considered chloroform?"

"She's drunk." Martin grabbed Molly's right hand and raised his hands up, "Don't shoot."

Molly yarned with her other hand.

"Give me your wallet!" The man gave Martin a ferocious look.

"Okay. I'm just gonna reach my pocket in the jacket. Don't shoot, okay?"

Martin slowly took out his wallet. As he was about to hand it to the robber, he threw the wallet as far away as he could and grabbed Molly by her hand, "Run!"

They fled in the opposite direction for their life.

* * *

They didn't stop running until three blocks later.

"But you…" Molly panted, "…you lost your wallet."

"Yeah. An empty one." Martin breathed heavily with one hand against the wall.

Molly giggled. As Martin's breath became natural, he laughed, too.

"You know." Molly bit her lips and took a step closer to Martin, "Every time I look at you, my mind keeps ticking, 'is he Sherlock? Is he? Is he?'"

"What do you think?" Martin leaned over and they were inches away. She was covered in his shadow and she had trouble identifying his facial expression at the intoxicated state.

Her head hurt like hell but she didn't care.

"I don't give a fuck about that."

With that, she grabbed his tie and kissed him.

* * *

Molly was kissing him, not on the cheek or forehead, full on the lips.

How should he react?

Was that the correct way to move his tongue?

Where should his hands go?

Martin stood there awkwardly while Molly was hanging on him like a koala.

Kissing was nice.

Very nice.

_Hands on her hips, you idiot!_

Okay.

_Not both hands. She's not a basket._

Right. One hand on the hip and one hand on the waist.

Wait.

Was that Sherlock?

* * *

Sherlock carried the sleeping Molly home. It was good that she dozed off in the middle of the kiss. Otherwise it would be awkward to explain why the man she was kissing turned into a different one when she opened her eyes.

He picked her lock, as usual. Toby meowed at the sight of them and walked between his legs but Sherlock shushed him.

Sherlock gently laid Molly on her bed and put her under the quilt.

"What is it with you that he's so obsessed about?" Sherlock asked softly as he brushed some hair out of Molly's face.

"Why you?"

Sherlock encountered a mystery that he couldn't solve for the first time in his life.

* * *

Life of Mycroft Holmes had not been easy, recently. The former right-hand man of his former nemesis hijacked an airplane just to seek for his not-so-dead dear brother. Then Moran disappeared and got his hands busy with bombing places that didn't please him.

The media claimed those were natural gas explosion to cover up the terrifying fact that a man would like to burn the whole world into a living hell simply for revenge.

He couldn't ask Martin, could he? It would be unfair.

Martin deserved the control of his own life, after what he had been through. Sherlock would probably scorn at such idea that Mycroft did care about his brother(s).

This was not Martin's battle and he was not ready anyway.

As for Martin's friends, Mycroft sent them into the witness scheme. The peculiar cheerfulness on that young lad's face when he saw the ice-cream van was somehow worrying.

Mycroft sighed at the daily report of Sebastian Moran's coordination when his phone vibrated.

_A wanted robber can be found handcuffed to London Eye. –SH_

_P.S You might want to send an ambulance, as well. He fell off several times._

Mycroft rubbed his temples.

* * *

AN: I really thought I could get to the fun part very soon. *Sigh*

Anyway...

I'm usually not an attention-seeking bitch. But could people please give me some reviews? How do you feel about this? Is there anything I can improve?

I'm begging for reviews. Please?


	9. Farewell

Chapter 9 Farewell

_That's not a real door. She must have hidden in the storage room which was concealed to look the same as the walls. _

Thanks, Sherlock. Thank you for the spoiler.

* * *

"Martin, are you all right?" Molly looked up at him with concerns, "You look like you are in pain."

"Oh. I was just trying to figure out the mystery." To be honest, Martin didn't lie. He was but then Sherlock just felt like it was his responsibility to spoil the fun.

Ever since their first kiss, Martin could start to hear Sherlock's thinking and Sherlock seemed to be awake all the time. It was like a radio channel which he was compulsory to listen to. Martin felt for John Waston. He really did. Anyone who could tolerate Sherlock's mumbling for an hour deserved a golden medal, let alone being Sherlock's flat mate.

Albeit how brilliant Sherlock was, he really had no idea when to keep his mouth shut.

Or stop thinking, in this case.

However, it seemed that the radio was going one-way only. Sherlock couldn't hear Martin's thoughts; otherwise Sherlock would definitely know that it was not cool to be suicidal just because Sherlock could always recover.

Sherlock had to go after Sebastian Moran. Martin understood that and he wouldn't mind Sherlock borrowing the body at night. (Okay. Maybe he minded a little bit on the night that Molly first kissed him.) But pursuing criminals recklessly was just mad.

Last time he woke up from being washed up upon the beach on the east coast of Cuba. Judging from the footage provided by Mycroft, Sherlock found one of the operation sites of Sebastian Moran. Instead of waiting for back-up, Sherlock walked in alone and took out eight viscous gangsters with the price of fifteen bullet holes all over the body.

Mycroft added those bullets into the Holmes Family Collection.

Martin felt sick.

Frankly speaking, it was cheating. Even Martin felt sorry for the villains. They never stood a chance against the impossible Sherlock Holmes. Just when they thought Sherlock was finally taken out of the picture, Sherlock showed up at their doors with a smirk, in his usual fabulous coat like a haunted nightmare in the next day.

Sherlock took full advantage of being "reborn" and went on missions with a death wish.

Martin wasn't so sure that Sherlock might have noticed this or Sherlock was pretending not knowing: Every time Sherlock was recovered, the period of time that Sherlock could stay shortened.

One day, Sherlock might not be able to get reborn.

And that scared Martin like hell.

* * *

The movie ended. Martin wasn't really paying much attention. He didn't really miss much considering Sherlock was constantly complaining about the lack of imagination of the writer.

"Let me get some more popcorn." Molly gave Martin a quick peck on the lips.

_You are always a lousy kisser, Martin. _

Alright. That was it.

"Molly?" Martin shouted to the girl who was busy in the kitchen, "Where do you keep all the Glee DVDs?"

_What? _

_No! _

_No!_

_No!_

_I can't believe you are doing this to me!_

"I can't wait to watch them." Martin meant it, sincerely.

* * *

Mycroft called Martin – to be precise, Sherlock – in when the news of bombing comes out at St Bart's.

"Oh My God! Is Molly Okay?" Martin asked worriedly when Mycroft handed him a folder containing some photos

"I can assure you that Dr. Hooper is safe and was sent home about half an hour ago."

Martin looked down at the photos from the crime scenes, and frowned. One of the things that he learnt from Sherlock was a stronger stomach. The photos were so miserable that one might not bear seeing them.

_The bomb exploded under the table by the window. _

Martin repeated what Sherlock "said" to Mycroft and turned over the page.

"Same type detonator was used." Martin tried to catch up with Sherlock's fast speed, "Definitely Moran." He couldn't understand half of Sherlock's saying.

Mycroft nodded, "Moran's men were spotted outside St Bart's after the explosion."

"Did you find anything from them?"

_Of course, he didn't. Otherwise, he wouldn't ask for my advice, would he?_

"No. They committed suicide." Mycroft sipped his tea, "Can't really blame them. Death is more merciful than a raging Moran."

Ignoring the comments Sherlock made on how Mycroft was "good" at his job, Martin read the report written by Mycroft's men.

_The bombs exploded in the canteen at five past twelve_…

"The bombs exploded in the canteen at five past twelve…"

…_starting from the table by the window…_

"…starting from the table by the window."

_The real target was…_

"The real target was…"

_Molly Hooper_

"…"

"Is everything okay, Martin?" Mycroft raised furrow at silent Martin.

Martin didn't say anything at all. He just listened to Sherlock

_It might look like the bomb wasn't meant for anyone specific. It went off at the precise time as Molly normal lunch break under her usual table. _

"Martin?" Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder.

_However, Molly got distracted by her mother's sudden call. Otherwise, she would be laying on her own working bench now. _

"You knew it, didn't you?"

"I thought it would be better if Sherlock could tell you." Mycroft smiled wryly.

_Not so brave now, is he?_

Martin left without a word.

* * *

Martin just stared at his reflection in the mirror. In the mirror stood Sherlock who was rolling eyes on him.

_We should go to the airport. _

_Not Molly's toilet._

_I know who make bombs for Sebastian Moran._

_It is quite obvious._

_The serial number was destroyed in the previous times, but not this time. _

_Martin? _

_Say something._

_You can say "Brilliant". John always does. _

_Or "freak". _

_I can't hear your thinking, Martin. _

_Even I can't always deduce what my duel personality is thinking. _

Sherlock crossed his arms in the mirror.

"Oh. Yeah? Do you want to know what I think?" Martin finally said a sentence after staring at Sherlock for the whole five minutes.

"I'm angry."

_Understand. Moran tried to blow up your little girlfriend._

"_Our_ girlfriend." Martin emphasized and continued, "And Sherlock, you don't understand."

_What?_

"I'm angry at myself."

_You are not making any sense._

"I was rejected by more than one flight school. I barely qualified for my certification on the seventh attempt. I took the job with MJN Air without any salary as long as I get to be the Captain." Martin shouted frustrated, "Sherlock, I'm not brilliant. I can't catch the bad guys. I don't have the ability to help or protect her. I sometimes even need her to open the jars for me."

Martin sighed and rubbed his face.

"I'm not who Molly really needs, Sherlock. I may be able to make her happy but I can't make her protected…" Martin paused for a second, "I'm not you." Martin leaned on the wall and slowly sat down on the tiles, covering his head.

Sherlock seemed genuinely unprepared for Martin's speech. He looked at Martin in the same way he did when Molly stormed out the lab after Jim.

"I don't expect you to understand the sentiments."

"Sentiments make me weak and slow me down." was all Sherlock could think of to respond.

Martin was too exhausted to debate with Sherlock. No one said anything for a while. The only sound was the running of tap water in the sink.

All Martin could think of was Molly lying down on the bench, cold and burnt like those corpse in the photos.

"Can you catch him, Sherlock?" Martin stood up and looked into Sherlock's eyes, "Will you?"

Sherlock simply nodded.

Martin stepped forward and put his right hand on the mirror.

Sherlock gazed at Martin's hand in confusion, but he moved his hand to Martin's anyway.

Their hands coincided.

"We have a deal."

The last two stages of grief are depression and acceptance. Martin had too much of the former and he was ready for the later.

Martin Crieff was ready to accept his own death.

* * *

"Martin, are you alright?" Molly asked outside the bathroom door, "You seemed to take an awful lot of time in there. I hope there is nothing wrong with the food."

The door opened and Molly found herself locked in the arms of Martin. "Martin." Molly hesitated, "What's wrong?"

Martin buried his head into Molly's neck, "I don't want to lose you."

"Is it about the bombing today?" Molly gently stroked Martin's back, "I'm sure Lestrade will catch the guy who did it."

"You don't understand." Martin's eyes were bloodshot.

"Hey." Molly brushed Martin's hair with her fingers, "I wasn't hurt. Don't worry."

Martin wrapped his arms around her, more tightly this time. "I love you."

Molly smiled. "I love you, too." She wrapped her arms around Martin's neck and kissed his cheek.

Martin studied her intently. He looked like he was about to tell her something but also feel conflicted. Then suddenly he dragged her to him, slanting his mouth across hers. Their lips met in a slow movement of heat and passion. His hands travelled from her back to her hips and lingered at her waist. The familiar sensation of butterflies fluttering in the stomach came to her. They broke the kiss, leaning their foreheads together.

"If this is our last day, what would you do, Molly?"

"Like the Zombie Apocalypse?"

Martin chuckled. "Yes."

"hmm…Watch…" Molly nibbled gently his bottom lips, "Shawn…", and Martin pulled her closer for a deeper kiss, "…Of the…"

Martin picked her up while maintaining his lips full on hers and carried her towards her bedroom.

Molly never got to finish the title. She had something way more important on her hands, like the buttons of Martin's shirt. It suddenly occurred to Molly why the shirt was designed to have so many. The buttons should all be replaced with a zipper, like his trousers.

Martin's shirt was tossed on the floor, along with her dress.

Martin laid Molly on the bed with one hand while the other one traced the curve of her body from her back, to her breasts, and grazed her inner thighs. She unzipped him and giggled.

Martin seemed slightly embarrassed. As he was about to pull away, Molly grabbed him for another kiss while her fingertips slipped under his boxers and pull his trousers and boxers down altogether.

"Oh. Boy." Molly raised an eyebrow.

Martin was blushing like his cheeks were on fire. "Not good?"

"On the contrary." Molly grinned and switched the position with Martin. She climbed down on him, wrapped her small hands around his length and gave it a tentatively lick, hearing Martin gasped in surprise.

She took him into her mouth bit by bit as he grew harder and harder in her mouth. Sucking gently, she bobbed her head back and forth, slowly at first, as Martin's grip on her hair increased, she moved faster.

"Molly." Martin called her softly. Her mouth was too full to answer.

"Molly." This time her name was louder.

Molly grinned in proud but she stopped and looked up at him innocently, "Yes?"

Martin chuckled and rolled her over. He kissed her neck and undid her bra. He spent a few seconds thinking about what to do. She put his hands cupping her to save him the trouble.

"Before we fly Gertie, we switch on the engine..." He playfully stroke her right breast, "…check the fuel condition…" Rubbing her, He placed one of her nipples in his mouth.

Gosh. He got a flexible tongue.

"…make sure the runway is clear…"She laughed when he licked down Molly's waist. Her laugh died out when his tongue was close to her sensitive area.

He bit softly on her inner thighs and was busy dropping pecks around her clit.

She waited impatiently for him to put his fantastic tongue into real use.

But. No. He licked her clit only the surface. Just when she thought, he was going to put a bit in, his tongue moved away. She could feel the tension built up and burning her from inside.

He put one fingertip in and curled slightly as if he was testing something, taking trials so that he wouldn't make any mistake. Molly lifted herself a little bit to meet him more. One fingertip was not enough, one finger was not sufficient, and one whole hand might still be too little. She needed the whole him. She would like to tell him that she was not a bomb so he didn't need to be so careful with her. However, considering his state of hearing the news today, she might just complain in her head.

Finally, his soft tongue replaced his finger and circled inside her.

Clockwise once.

Clockwise twice.

And then anticlockwise half a circle.

"Martin." She was out of breath and clutched the bed sheet as strongly as she could.

His need for air interrupted. He moved up and gave Molly a kiss while his big and hot dick dangling so close to her, dripping a little on her.

Taking a deep breath, Martin went down again. He sucked a little and his tongue slide in.

One hand hurried for condoms in her drawer, Molly's other hand dug into his back badly. She spread her leg as far as she could and tangled Martin's shoulders.

"Golf Tango India." Martin winked at her, "Permission to take off."

She literally threw the condoms into his face.

By the time he entered her, she was too wet and shaking. As he pressed against her firmly, Molly could feel she was coming with his rhythmic thrusts.

They cried for each other's name and desired more and more from each other as they ride each other faster and faster.

Molly looked into Martin's eyes. His eyes were darkened with lust and need and her mind was washed with pleasure and excitement. She couldn't tell if she was having multiple orgasms or just one particularly long. But Molly was sure he was close.

He was about to come.

He was coming.

And then –

Martin's hair darkened and curled, his skin paled and his hands slightly enlarged.

Molly blinked.

Sherlock?

She couldn't believe what she just saw.

"Who the fuck are you?"

She slapped the man above her, who was still buried deep inside of her.

* * *

AN: Many thanks for the support!

This was my first time to write smut. The act here might seemed a bit cliched. Considering the circumstances, this was the safest way I could think of to handle the situation. Advice on smut will be very very very appreciated for the next chapter. ;)


	10. Yours Always

Chapter 10 Yours Always

Dear Molly,

By the time you receive this e-mail, I'm probably long gone. Sherlock has made a promise to send you this when the time comes.

You are very confused now, aren't you?

The situation between Sherlock and me is very complicated. We are two souls trapped in one body, two sides of the same coin, the opposite poles of magnets, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Even I can't fully understand it.

Perhaps I should start from the beginning?

You might not believe this but the first time I met you was about two years ago. I was supposed to deliver your stuff. When I laid eyes on you, I fell for you and Sherlock whom hadn't been known to me was released. Mycroft said that Sherlock grew on my sentiments (What an irony!) and charged like a battery on my happiness. Sherlock had the control over the body until he committed suicide to protect the others. You pretty much know the rest of the story.

Now as I look back, I realize that maybe I've had feeling for you since I met you, even when I could only observe you from darkness. I never regret meeting you. You give me a reason to wake up in the morning. This might sound ridiculous, but love is ridiculous and can't be explained. I want to be a better man for you. You gave me strength and faith. The things people are willing to do for their beloved ones are crazy and insane.

You see.

Despite as much as Sherlock might not be willing to admit, he is love and love is sociopath. After all, he was born from my affection for you.

And it is because of my devotion to you makes me determined to give up. As long as Sebastian Moran is alive, you are always in danger. Even if Moran finally is sentenced, there will always be another Moran who wouldn't blink at slaughtering millions of people's lives just for fun.

The world needs Sherlock Holmes. You need him.

I know that you care about Sherlock even the way he treats you isn't fair and may I ask you for a favor, as a dying man's wish?

If you ever loved me, don't give up on him, on us.

Not yet.

You can punch him, slap him, kick him in the balls or ban him from the lab forvever. But, please, please don't break his heart, because, that would be me, loving you with my every beating.

This is not a goodbye. This is a new beginning.

Yours Always.

Sherlock's Missing Heart

* * *

It had been three days since the incident and Sherlock avoided Molly's calls and texts after he pulled himself out of her and left without saying anything.

Sherlock wasn't a fan of heroism but he had to admit that Martin surprised him. The way Martin committed suicide was somewhat poetic, but most importantly, it proved Sherlock's point.

So-called love could confuse people's judgment, lower their intelligence, and blind them with irrational and unrealistic illusions.

Martin was weak. He had no fighting spirit and all he would like to do was spending all his time with that common Molly Hooper. In spite of her professionalism at her job and her loyalty to her friends, Sherlock couldn't see why Martin was so attracted to her that he would give up a lifetime simply for her safety. Such decision was unwise and totally unworthy.

Sherlock was there so he could understand the appeal of sex with Molly Hooper. He had never had so much clarity in his brain when the orgasm hit. It powered him. But if he had been in Martin's position, he wouldn't have sacrificed the right to host so easily.

However, Sherlock was more than willing to comply with Martin's request. It had always been his only interest to pursue adventures and hence he was going after Sebastian Moran anyway. It had nothing to do with Martin's wishes.

Sherlock was ashamed of Martin and he would never be like Martin.

Not in a million years.

Sherlock kept reminding himself that, otherwise Sherlock feared that even he might not have the self-restrain not to go back to her flat, to bury himself into her softness and warmth, to have her as his and his only.

Sherlock picked up his fiddle. He needed something to take his mind off her.

The first note came out like a woman's screaming.

Sherlock sighed.

Just when he was about to play again, he heard someone smiting on the door. He raised his eyebrow. Only Mycroft knew this address and Mycroft always preferred to sneak in quietly like a ghost.

"Sherlock Holmes! I know you are in there. Get out, you coward."

_Great. _

_Just what I need when I'm trying not to think about you. _

Sherlock opened the door and the furious Molly Hooper stormed in without even being invited in.

_Now I know how John feels like._

Sherlock closed the door and Molly turned around. Her eyes were red and swollen although she tried to cover up with make-up.

Never good at make-up.

He just found another reason for Martin not to like Molly. Too bad that Martin wasn't here.

She had been crying so she must have read the e-mail.

Why was she here, then?

Oh dear. She was not here for Martin, right? She couldn't still have foolish hope that Martin would magically come back and they would live happily after like a fairy tale, could she? He thought an e-mail was self-explanatory enough.

Her lips were trembling.

Sherlock was not sure whether that was because she was too sad or too angry. He was never good at emotions.

"You asshole."

It was not usual to hear Molly swear.

"Sherlock or Martin – whatever your name is -, you can't just give me the fuck of my life and then break up with me over a fucking _e-mail_."

"Molly," Sherlock narrowed his eyes in bafflement, "I'm not him. Martin's gone."

"No matter what you excuse is, personality issue or whatever I don't care, you can't just break into people's life and steal their hearts and watch them scattered into pieces all over the places." Molly added, "TWICE!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned, "Why can't you understand? I'm not your boyfriend."

"Really? So how come I found my stuff all packed up last night and a cabbie came to my flat to send me to Heathrow, booked by a certain 'Mr. Crieff'?"

"It was for your own good. Hasn't Mycroft introduced the witness protection scheme to you?"

"Yes. And I remember very clearly I said to him that I would give it a thought and reply him later."

"I have checked Mycroft's plan. Paris is lovely this year."

"Don't I have a say in this? It's not your business."

"So one minute ago, I was your boyfriend and now it's none of my business?"

Molly took a deep breath, "The thing that hurts me the most, is that you don't realize you have hurt me." She dried the tears near the corners of her eyes. "It never occurred to Martin that he could tell everything to me and you basically handle everything for me. You both think of me as something so fragile like a Barbie."

"I never thought of such thing." Sherlock looked right into Molly's eyes, "I made a promise to Martin, Molly. I will keep you safe and in return, he shredded himself."

Molly covered her mouth.

"Right now, he was just some fragments of memory in my mind palace."

"Truth hurts. I'm sorry, Molly." Sherlock turned back, not wanting to see her face, "I'm not him and I don't have feelings for you."

He could hear Molly's quiet sobbing.

Then in the next minute, he was pushed up against the wall. Sherlock could feel the temperature of the tears on her face and taste the saltiness on her lips. Their tongues were sliding past each other.

He could always push her away, of course. She wasn't that strong.

But he didn't.

He ran his hands up and down her body while her hands were fiddling his hair. He closed his eyes and for the first time of his life, he stopped thinking.

Just as suddenly as she initiated the kiss, Molly had to pull herself away.

Sherlock reluctantly let her go, opening his eyes slowly.

"Like you said, Sherlock, you are not my boyfriend." She smiled bitterly. Her tears were dry and her hands were clenched into fists.

"This is simply showing you what you are going to miss."

With that, she left without glancing back at Sherlock once.

Sherlock was alone in a room that full of Molly's lavender scent, lost and confused.

_Damn._


	11. Mine

Chapter 11 Mine

San Francisco was different from London. Buildings here were much taller and the weather was warmer. But in some way, they were the same. You could see Chinese restaurants everywhere and the traffic was terrible during rush hours.

Something in the air followed Molly from London to here. She couldn't put her fingers on what it was yet. It was too beautiful to ignore, but at the same time, too sad to speak of. It was there on her way to work by bus while the mother and the child behind her were bickering. It was there when she had her lunch at the central park alone and fed a bit of her sandwich to the pigeons. It lurked in the darkness and watched her every move.

When her new colleague kindly warned her not to be too attached to her patients, it suddenly occurred to her the name of it.

Emptiness.

After all, her heart got carved out and tossed onto the ground.

If she was completely honest with herself, she couldn't care less about whether Sebastian Moran was going to find her. She might even welcome him with open arms. There was no purpose of living for her. She had false hope and was let down so many times that every breathing hurt like hell.

She couldn't talk to anyone else what happened to her. Nobody would believe her. Also, because of the witness protection scheme, she couldn't even talk about her past, her real past, to people she would like to be friends with. Everything about her known to other people was not true.

Mary Cooper was an experienced and famous vet who was the second daughter in her family. Mary Cooper was happily married although her husband was ordered to go on business in Italy. Mary Cooper volunteered in a Catholic charity every week without exceptions.

Mary Cooper was a big fat lie.

There was always this thick wall between her and her colleagues. Outside the wall was an easy-tempered and calm Mary Cooper and inside the wall was a collapsed Molly Hooper yelling for help.

She woke up every morning and pretended that the isolation from whom she was and how she felt would be cured by time. Maybe, just maybe everything could be fine one day.

She whispered to cats and dogs for hours as long as no one was watching her. The pets were the only ones she could talk to. They were very good at keeping secrets and they never judged her.

She was on the edge of losing her sanity.

* * *

Lighting up the cigarette between his fingers, Sherlock watched Molly's window in the shadow. She didn't have a habit of pulling down curtains at night.

He would like to give her a lecture on how that could create a perfect angle for snipers next time when he met her…

…If he would ever meet her again.

He took a sip as he put the lighter back to his coat pocket.

Molly past the window with a bowl in her arms. Sherlock stepped back quickly and hid behind the corner. He didn't show up until he reckoned that Molly couldn't see him.

He took out his phone and slid to unlock it. After a few thoughts, he typed a single letter, "I". Then immediately he deleted it.

Surely he could say "I'm sorry". But he wasn't sure what he would apologize for. The whole situation wasn't his choice and Martin acted out of good intentions. It was definitely not Molly's fault, neither. The sentence "Don't be sad." seemed useless and redundant. She would certainly know that "I actually love you." would be a lie. And "I'm downstairs." was just creepy.

He blew out the smoke slowly. It rose up like a spirit and blurred his eyes.

In the end, he never hit the "send" button.

* * *

A kitty was sent to her after being injured in a car accident. He didn't have a name tag so the owner hadn't been contacted yet.

"Who has been naughty and running around without paying attention to the road?" Molly put his claw in splints. "Lucky for you. It didn't hurt so badly."

The anesthesia worked well on him.

"Hey. It's gonna be alright." She comforted him while she wrapped him with bandage. "I'm sure your family will be here."

The cat meowed under her touch as if he could understand what she was saying. Molly scratched his neck and the cat purred. It had similar fur colour with her Toby but different eyes.

Her Toby was left behind with her past in London.

"Tell you what? If your family doesn't come tonight, you can stay at my place." She gave a small peck on his forehead.

After several hours, the cat – she later knew that his name was George – was picked up and brought home by his owner, Charles.

She watched the car driving away with a tad of sudden disappointment.

Who would take her home, then?

* * *

Sherlock stuffed the furious Toby into a cage.

"Ouch! I'm taking you to your owner." He tried really hard to close the door of the cage but Toby kept pushing the door open.

"Stop scratching me!"

* * *

This was Charles's third time to send her flowers. She accepted them gracefully and politely rejected his offer for a cup of coffee.

"Come on! It was just coffee." Charles pursued, "You seem in need of a friend."

If he had asked her a long time ago, she would have said yes.

Charles was a gentleman with good manners and a great sense of humor. He reminded her of Martin. But something felt missing. It wasn't him. It was her.

She needed a cure and he just wasn't it.

So she smiled and shook her head again. After he left, she threw the flowers into the rubbish bin. She was allergic to pollen anyway.

When Molly arrived at home, she found her Toby sitting in her couch and marking his territory.

It didn't take a genius to work out who had been here.

* * *

Sherlock was alphabetizing Molly's records when the door was flung open.

"You just have to poke your nose into everything, don't you?" Molly slammed the door shut.

"Not everything, obviously. It would be impossible to do that." Sherlock picked out a file and move it forward. "Why are you here, Molly? You are not supposed to be at work half an hour later." Sherlock added.

"Why are you here?" Molly walked towards him.

"Your paperwork is disorganized. I'm disapppointed, Molly."

"Firstly, I organize my work in a chronicle order…"

"If you call 20th of May a day before 18th, then, sure, it is in a chronicle order." Sherlock interrupted without any glimpse at her.

Molly blushed, "I was going to arrange those files later." She paused, "…And secondarily, since when do you start to care about paperwork? _My_ paperwork?"

"Since when workaholic and slightly OCD Molly Hooper start to let her job mess up."

Molly straightened her back. She studied Sherlock while he was still busy stapling pieces of paper together.

"Why do you come here, Sherlock?" Her eyes reddened.

Sherlock didn't respond. He had absolutely no idea what to say. At that moment, he wished that John or Martin could be here.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Molly whispered.

The only sound Sherlock made was from the stapler.

"Answer me." Molly asked, much louder this time.

"Why?" She yelled. She couldn't resist waves of anger rising from the bottom of her heart.

Sherlock lifted his head, fixing his gaze at her. Still, silence was his only reply.

"How can you be so cruel and nonchalant?"

Molly slapped him.

"Why do you have to destroy…" As Molly was about to run away, Sherlock grabbed her wrists. She turned around and tears were all over her face.

Sherlock was astonished beyond measure.

"Let me go." Molly cried out as pearl-like tears rain down her cheeks.

Sherlock didn't.

All he could think about was that if he let her go, she would run away and never want to see him again. Finding her wasn't an issue. He always did. It was difficult to watch her being miserable. He had hurt her, apparently. He was puzzled at what was wrong but the thing mattered now was that Molly was sad.

Extremely sad.

Sherlock never meant for her resentment. All he could do was grabbing her forcefully and embracing her. Molly kept hitting him while crying and shaking. Nevertheless, he held her even more tightly, accepting blow after blow on his chest.

If this could make her feel better, then fine.

After taking out most of the angst in her system, Molly quiet down and softened. She stopped struggling and just remained powerless in Sherlock's hug.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Her voice was still quivering and her tears were still running down.

What did he want?

He wanted nothing to do with Molly. But their fates were entangled.

He wished not to be emotionally attached. Yet here he was.

So he did what his intuition had told him: He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

Molly pushed him away and slapped him again, harder this time.

The burning of his cheek somehow eased him.

He would rather that she hated him than became a walking dead. He deserved to be punished although Sherlock wasn't sure why.

He needed it.

* * *

"What do you need?"

"You."

* * *

Sherlock was, unfortunately, her only link to the real life.

Molly crashed her lips on him.

Pretending that it was Martin kissing her back, Molly closed her eyes.

She hadn't had a good sleep for weeks and grieving was too much to handle.

She had to stop thinking; otherwise, she had no idea what she would do.

Please let her be selfish, just for once.

She needed it.

They were touching and devouring like two starved animals that had been trapped in a desert for days. She wasn't tender when leaving marks on his chest and he wasn't gentle when tossing her onto the desk. She wounded her legs around his waist, locking him as close as possible. He lowered his head, licking and teasing her nipples while her fingers fondled all over him underneath his shirt. He pinned her over the desk and she could feel his fairly visible erection between her legs. Even though there were clothes between them, the heat radiated from him warmed her skin.

She wanted him to fulfil her right there right at that moment and they weren't even completely naked.

He unzipped himself, rubbing his cock against her knickers and tempting her to beg.

"Martin." She whispered.

Sherlock was suddenly overwhelmed by a jealous rage. Instead of stopping right there, her knickers were torn apart and he slid two fingers inside of her at once.

Molly gasped.

"Say my name." His voice was low and raw, and his fingers were slamming into and out of her continuously.

Molly was out of breath. "Mar…"

He killed that syllabus with a deep kiss into her throat.

"SAY…"Sherlock fingered her, "MY…" and squeezed her breast, "NAME."

Molly bit her lips, trying not to scream.

"My name." He held his length, ready to fire.

"Sherlock." His lips finally escaped from her parted lips.

Her reward was a hard and fast thrust of his hips. Then he moved and pulled, purposely and torturously slowly. He was almost out of her when she called him in frustration, "Sherlock!"

Once hearing that, he thrust in like a machine gun. Molly moaned.

Then he was pulling out again. "You are mine."

"Sherlock!" Molly shouted his name.

"Mine."

"Yes."

"Mine."


	12. Cats and Texts

Chapter 12

Neither of them dared to speak one word when dressing up.

Molly felt guilty. She just cheated on Martin with the other him. The holes in her heart were partially blocked but they still bled.

Sherlock was ashamed. He gave in to his desire like normal people and he even enjoyed the intercourse. Sherlock had never appreciated the effect sex did on human body: Dilated pupils, a racing heart, boosted blood pressure and temperature, tensed muscles and a brain which got literally electrocuted and fires the impulses everywhere. Furthermore, it could create a childish delusion and bring out unwanted sentiments. It was unhygienic and ugly. It was deadly. Sherlock was not a fool and he would not make the same mistake twice.

"I can't love you, Molly." He lingered at her door.

"I know."

They both knew the only person who loved her had died.

She hated him for being an inevitable obstacle in her life, a temptation she would never learn to refuse, and the only and brutal remedy to her depression and misery.

He hated her for being a constant encumbrance to his freedom, a living proof that he wasn't so different from the rest of the world, and the only drug he was addicted to.

They were like hedgehog.

As much as they craved for each other's accompany, they couldn't help but stabbing each other with sharp and rough prickles.

Molly ran away to New Jersey like a deserter and Sherlock engaged in his unfinished business with Sebastian Moran.

They both swore that the moment of weakness would never happen, again.

* * *

Until Sherlock showed up by her door, covered in blood and scars.

"Jesus's Christ!" Molly supported Sherlock who nearly fainted into the room. "What happened to you?"

"Two assassins," sitting on Molly's couch, Sherlock furrowed when Molly put ice-bag on his forehead, "And a truck."

Molly didn't say anything. She blew some air on Sherlock's wounds, dressed and started to wrap bandage around Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock observed her carefully. "It doesn't work."

She could almost read how Sherlock must be deducing. Her nails probably told him that she no longer performed operations and her choice of carpet might be interpreted as a sign of temporary arrangement. Hell. He might even know what she had for lunch today. No, wait. He would definitely know.

"What?" She blinked.

"Blowing air onto the wounds doesn't alleviate the pain physically. It just conned the brain to feel better. " Sherlock were staring at her fingers which were busy wrapping the bondage.

"Do you feel better?" She tied the bondage in a pretty bow and cut it with a scissor.

Sherlock simply rubbed his temples, "I feel a bit dizzy, possibly because of the concussion."

"You should go to a hospital."

"I don't trust hospitals."

"John?"

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds before he replied, "I can't risk John."

It suddenly occurred to Molly that she was all Sherlock got, too.

"You can stay here, tonight." Molly suggested without thinking. And then she immediately realized what she said could imply something else. She blushed. "I don't mean… I mean, well, you need a good rest and this place is quite safe."

Thankfully, Sherlock didn't seem to overthink her suggestion. He just nodded with straight face.

Neither of them said any more as Molly was packing up Sherlock. Sherlock closed his eyes, trusting that Molly would take care of him. She hesitated to unbutton Sherlock but the bleeding wound over Sherlock's shoulder didn't really give her much of a choice. She removed Sherlock's shoulder out of the shirt and Sherlock just laid there, eyes shut, like a copse.

He must be really tired.

She swept her fingers across Sherlock's abdomen, remembering very clearly how some of the marks were actually made by her. She blushed more at the dirty memory and kicked herself for being distracted and lured.

_Thank God that Sherlock closed his eyes. It would be awkward._

She needed to concentrate on Sherlock's wounds, not one particular part of him.

When she finished, she found Sherlock dozed off.

His chest moved up and down steadily as he breathed peacefully. It was kind of strange to find that someone who was such a pain in the ass when being awake could look like as sweet as an innocent angel in sleep.

She sighed.

She hadn't asked him how he found her again. She hadn't had any faintest idea about what they were, either.

He appeared at her doorstep without any warning and she took care of him without much thinking.

She stood up and went to get him a blanket. By the time she came back, he was already gone.

* * *

He would hide under the ground for weeks and then sneaked into her flat. Molly hadn't caught him yet. Nonetheless, Sherlock suspected that she knew and that was why she always left food for two in her fridge. (She hadn't got a romantic interest, yet. He made sure of it.)

He bent down and filled Toby's bowl with milk. Apparently, bribing Toby with food and drinks was the only way to stop it from scratching him. That devil meowed and brushed itself against his legs, leaving some furs on his shoes. "Happy now?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and drank the rest of the milk directly from the cotton box.

He then walked towards the table and picked up Molly's notes. He skimmed several pages before sitting down.

"Good point on analyzing the experiment results but the discussion can be further elaborated." He scratched Toby's neck, "What do you think? Should I teach Dr. Hooper how it is supposed to be done? She doesn't like others interfering her job, though."

Toby purred in agreement.

* * *

_Your description of the hemoglobin is inaccurate. SH_

Molly raised an eyebrow at the sudden text. When did he have her new number? She decided not to reply due to her pride in her job and her anger at him not knowing what personal space was. She put her phone back and pushed her trolley forward along the organic food aisle.

Her phone vibrated again.

She thought for ignoring the text, but then her subconscious couldn't let the mystery of why he texted her go.

_You are out of milk. SH_

And she wondered why. Molly rolled her eyes.

_John got a date. SH_

Of course, what else would Sherlock Holmes messaged her for? Molly sighed and grabbed a box of cereals.

_I'm going to prevent him from doing anything stupid. SH_

Sure, Sherock. She sneered. Was there anything that normal people did not be considered as silly and immature by his majesty?

_Don't try to stop me. SH_

As if she could.

_Your underwear collection is appalling. SH_

She nearly dropped the pineapple.

_WTF? M_

_Just want to confirm that you receive my texts. SH_

_Mind your language. Your mouth could be for better use. SH_

Molly narrowed her eyes. Was he flirting with her?

_Outside John's girlfriend's flat. Her taste in furniture is as bad as yours. SH_

Molly wasn't sure if Sherlock was referring to her taste in underwear or indoor decorates.

_No. Not the furniture. Your couch is fine. SH_

Molly's mouth turned into an "O". How did he…

_Ready to kick her door. SH_

No, no, no. This was wrong on so many levels. Molly immediately called him back. Sherlock didn't pick up the phone and she got straight to the voicemail.

"Sherlock!" Molly shouted, "Whatever you are about to do, don't!"

The old man beside her who was picking apples beside stared at her.

"Sorry." She quickly apologized for her abrupt behavior, and returned to her phone, "I repeat! DON'T!"

After waiting agitatedly for five minutes, which felt like a lifetime, she received the reply from Sherlock.

_They are going to get married and have annoyingly cute babies. SH_

_Good for him. That's… A bit sudden though. When's the ceremony? M._

_I mean, eventually. SH_

…_And you get that from busting into their romantic date? M_

_No, I didn't go in. I observed them from a window. SH_

Molly's expression was frozen. She suddenly realized Sherlock, too, lost his friend and his old life. It was painful for Molly, a common person to be out of her comfort zone. Molly couldn't imagine how much it must hurt Sherlock who took much more and longer to trust and grow fond of people, to abandon all of them behind.

All Sherlock could do was watching them, guarding them, setting them free and letting them go.

Her stomached felt like twisted.

She sighed.

_Would you like to have coffee with me? M_

"Mary Dear. What's all this milk for?" The old lady at the cashier, Mrs Black, smiled at her amiably.

"I've got a huge cat." Molly shrugged easily.

Two cats, actually.

* * *

**AN: Dear all, I'm having exams lately so I shall delay the update for some time. I sort of finished some part of the next chapter but it is in need for polishing and enriching. **

**Until next time. **

**xxxx**


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